Something New

We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books. 

  “FLESH” by David Szalay [Jonathan Cape publishers; $NZ38:00]

 

            When the Booker Prize is announced, many literate readers rush to the book shops hoping to find a new masterpiece. Sometimes they are rewarded with an outstanding novel, such as Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, which is still regarded as “the Booker of Bookers”. But let’s be honest. Sometimes the winner is a dud, leaving reviewers scratching their heads. This year, the Booker was won by David Szalay, still a youngish man, born in Canada with a Jewish mother and a Hungarian father, raised in England, went to Oxford and now [says the blurb] lives in Vienna. He has written five previous novels, but now comes Flesh. And, as usual, some reviewers proclaim it as a masterpiece while others think it is appalling. Let me be neutral at first as I dive into the book.

            Running to 349 pages, Flesh begins as a shocker. In Hungary, Istvan is a teenager – all of fifteen. He is seduced by a woman about forty who makes use of him when her husband is not around. She bonks him this way and that way and her over him and him over her and under the bed and over the bed and in positions you’ve never heard of and really kinky stuff. This means that the first thirty pages read like sheer pornography. Dear reader, it is not a novel to give to your nice granny for Christmas.  Anyway, naïve teenager Istvan thinks he has found the love of his life; so he gets a big shock when the woman tells him to get lost as her husband comes back. She has really used him as a sex-toy. Istvan finds it hard to believe. In a scuffle on the stairwell he shoves the husband down the stairs. The husband hits his head and is killed. Istvan, being a juvenile, is not locked up in jail but it sent to a reform school for three years.

So what do we, as readers, immediately understand? That, in Istvan’s mind,  love is less important but sex [i.e. bonking] is necessary, or at least that is the way Istvan sees it. And that being the case, women are mainly there to be used. They are flesh only. I read it, that is why the novel is called Flesh. Men are also to be used to, but only when they can help him get ahead. No softness in the eye of a cynic.

            I will deliberately give you a very brief synopsis only as this long story unravels. Being out of the institute for young offenders, Istvan gets a boring job, tries to get girls, doesn’t really get anywhere, and finally joins the army.

He’s in the army for five years, on N.A.T.O’s peace-keeping missions. He sees a mate getting badly hurt. Along comes a sort of battle fatigue. How does he deal with this? Taking illicit drugs of course, and with his mate chasing available girls [okay – young women, but you know what I mean].  He’s left the army. Where can he find a job? He goes to London and gets a job as a bouncer at a sleazy strip-joint in Soho.

Dead end, right? Nope. Because fortuitously novelists can create events that will keep the protagonist going. Istvan, now a strong and muscular man and capable of fighting, rescues a man who is being beaten up by thugs.

The man – Karl Nyman – happens to be a multimillionaire. Nyman pays professionals to show Istvan how to deal with polite society in London, how to fend off thugs, and in effect how to become Nyman’s body-guard. Nyman also makes Istvan his wife’s chauffeur. She is called Helen. Nyman and Helen have a little son called Thomas.

Behind Nyman’s back, Helen and Istvan begin to have an affair. More bonking and bonking and bonking. And Nyman the tycoon, who can pull strings where money is concerned, becomes racked with cancer. And goes to hospital. And dies. And Helen and Istvan marry and then have a baby called Jacob.

So Istvan is now a wealthy, flashy entrepreneur and property developer, almost top of the crowd. But there is one major snag. Young Thomas, son of Nyman and Helen, is now a pot-smoking, drugs-injecting student at Oxford. He always hated Istvan and he now understands that, according to a trust, all Nyman’s money should really come to him and not be wasted by Istvan and….

Oh stop, stop, stop!!

I have gone as far as I can because, as I have often noted, I do not give away how newly-minted novels end. And I have ignored what nuance and subtlety there is in this novel.

First, I think we are meant to see Istvan as a man who had in part been warped by his adolescent experience. He might have begun thinking he had found something vaguely like love, but his experience soured him, not helped by his further experience in the army. Yet he is not wholly insensitive. He gradually likes his little boy Jacob, although the little boy doesn’t entirely like him.

Second, in the passages where Istvan is making money, being the tycoon, dealing with other property developers in London and going to extravagant parties, David Szalay is clearly showing us the sheer nastiness of the crass upper-classes. Like mere sex, making money has little to do with real love. Yet at the same time, we can understand that Istvan in a way, coming from an impoverished  background, at least tried to climb the greasy pole, tryed to get to the top…. But again, hasn’t David Szalay made it a little too easy to get him to the top, what with the woman [Helen] who neatly puts him in her bed? Contradictions, contradictions.

Flesh is written throughout in the present tense. The language is largely simple. Many pages are written in a series of statements [sentences] rather than in paragraphs. As for Istvan, he has a very limited vocabulary. When he speaks he says little more than “Yeah” and “Okay”. For many, this will make for an easy read. I have found some reviews that see Istvan as a macho man and the epitome of such men. Surely there are such men and Flesh could be read as a kind of documentary.

As I said at the beginning of this review, some people have hailed Flesh as a work of brilliance; and others wonder why this year’s Booker judges bothered with it.

 

Something Old

Not everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique classic to a good book first published year or two ago.      

            “THE PAPER MEN” by William Golding ( Published 1987)

William Golding wrote The Paper Men in1987, after he had written Rites of Passage but before he had decided to write two more seafaring novels Close Quarters and Fire Down Below which later were put together as an omnibus called To the Ends of the Earth. The Paper Men is very, very different. Over it looms the idea that "vanity, all is vanity" as the Bible says, and an awareness that only by mental pain and struggle will one understand what the real meaning of life is. Who are the "paper men"? They are writers - novelists, historians, journalists, academics -who hope they will be remembered or win prestige. Golding had already won his Nobel Prize in 1983 when he wrote The Paper Men, and he obviously knew a great deal about how publishers behave, how novelists create characters, and how there were academics who wanted to pick apart his works and perhaps misunderstood what he had written.

Written in the first person, The Paper Men is narrated by Wilfred Barclay, a well- known and admired novelist. Approaching his 60's he is a heavy drinker and a lecher. His marriage is falling apart. His wife Elizabeth has been keeping all his papers and letters in boxes. An annoying American academic, Rick L.Tucker, wants to get hold of Wilfred's papers as he aims to make his name by writing a biography of Wilfred; but Wilfred loathes the idea of somebody writing up his life. Rick goes so far as looking into Wilfred's rubbish-bin to find things Wilfred may have written. They have a [drunken] brawl. But, becoming aware of Wilfred's philandering, and hearing too much of a woman called Lucinda, Elizabeth finally divorces him.

Cut loose, and now in his 60's, he still wants to chase women. but he finds he's not good at it. He begins to wander on his own in Europe. For some time he has an affair with an Italian woman. but he gets annoyed with her when she proves to be religious and she follows the word of Padre Pio with his stigmata. He scoffs at such nonsense and moves on. His moods are not improved by going to conferences about literature, which he finds to be pompous and pointless - critics who talk about novels but have never written a novel themselves. His own books are still highly esteemed, but he is now an alcoholic, his mind often filled with what can only be called nightmares.

Some years go by. He goes to Switzerland and books into a prestigious hotel, the Weisswald, high up in the snow-covered mountains. and he is accosted by Rick L. Tucker, who is now a professor in a minor university in the U.S.A. and who is escorted by a young woman [his wife], Mary Lou, who majored in flower-arranging and in Wilfred Barclay's works. [And, dear reader, you can smell here the disdain William Golding has for American universities.] Tucker pleads to be allowed to read all Wilfred's papers, which are still being held by Wilfred's ex-wife, and he once again pleads to become Wilfred's authorised biographer. Running through Wilfred's head are memories of all the women he had bed... and young Mary Lou looks interesting. When Wilfred is drunk on brandy, Tucker tries to get him to sign a note saying he will allow him to have access to all Wilfred's papers and works. It doesn't work. Later the tempting Mary Lou also tries to get him to allow Tucker to write a biography of Wilfred. Again, no dice. But Wilfred again becomes the lecher. He invites Mary Lou to his balcony, where she can see the beauty of the stars in the clear night. He puts his arm around her... and she leaves the room. His mind bubbles with brandy. He has incoherent dreams.

 Tucker invites Wilfred to take a walk along a steep track where the snow is high and there is impenetrable fog. Holding on to a rail, Wilfred walks ahead, in his mind thinking about writing a novel ridiculing Tucker. And the rail he is holding collapses. He plunges down, clinging to rocks and roots, in peril of falling to his death. It is Tucker who pulls him up and saves him. Wilfred is grateful for only a short time and again thinks of writing something denigrating Tucker. He goes onto more benders and wanders from place to place. He wants to know about this man called Halliday whom Tucker had so often mentioned.

Wilfred goes to Greece but is harassed by a boring queer man whom he used to know. This bore tries to gossip, but it is inane and Wilfred understands how empty some people are. Where is his purpose in life? Once again, Wilfred cannot settle down anywhere. He goes again through Italy and Sicily and finds himself drinking more coffee than alcohol. He stumbles into a dark church where he has a sort of fugue, a wild dream of all he should have known about life. A breakdown follows and he is in hospital... and concludes "Not. Sin. .I Am.Sin"... meaning sin is an idea but sin is within us.

So more years go by. Wilfred  has become fatter and his body has decayed as he still drinks too much and he wanders aimlessly around Europe. He has lost the ability to be a lecher. After all these years, he meets Tucker again at Weisswald. Tucker has lost Mary Lou  to another man, Halliday. Wilfred and Tucker walk along the track that they had once walked, but this time the weather is clear and with no fog. But there is no real compromise, and Tucker says that Halliday had said that he [Tucker] should be the man to write Wilfred's biography. And at this point Wilfred rages to Tucker about all the people who are after him. Half drunk, he rants to Tucker "Think Rick, all the people who get lice like you in their hair, all the people spied on, followed, lied about, all the people offered to the great public - we'll all be revenged on the whole lot of them, ha et cetera..." [Pg. 152].

In his mind, Wilfred travels, crossing valleys and mountains and having what can only be called a greater fugue. He dreams, having nightmares, and lands in Rome. Does he taste religion in Rome? Or, in the fugue, is he categorizing religion with science and psychology and philosophy.

He goes back to England and visits his ex-wife Elizabeth. She makes it clear that he has always been narcissistic, thinks only of himself and had never been able to get on with other people. He has never taken seriously how other people think.

. . . And so comes what can only be called farce. Wilfred goes to a club in London that he used to frequented ... and Tucker catches up with him, self-confident that Wilfred will sign a note saying Tucker can write the biography of Wilfred. But in the same club there are frivolous writers who barge in drunk, and Wilfred refuses to sign Tucker's note in such company... and there is a riot in which they and the rowdies are kicked out. And Wilfred says he hates London anyway.

So he returns to his old home. His ex-wife Elizabeth has just died. His daughter is selling the fanily house... and now does Wilfred understand that life can only be understood when we have gone through suffering, pain and loss; and understanding that other people are needed in life. After Elizabeth's funeral, Wilfred accosts the Anglican priest who had presided. Wilfred says "You will find this difficult to believe but I suffer with the stigmata. Yes. Four of the five wounds of Christ. Four down and one to go. No. You can see the wounds, unlike with poor Padre Pio. But I assure you my hands and feet hurt like hell – or should I say heaven?" And so he continues for a while, bantering with the parson. But looking back through his life, there have been real wounds in his mind - all the things he should not have done.

He burns all his letters and all the boxes, so there will be no biography of him.... But as is often the case, William Golding ends this novel in an ambiguous way. Does Tucker, his life-long hope of being a biographer gone, stalks Wilfred and shoot him dead... or is this another of Wilfred's dreams? 

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Now, dear reader, you are shouting at me because I am once again giving you nothing but a synopsis of The Paper Men when I should have given you a critique. Be patient then please.

First, I would say that the language Wilfred Barclay uses is often confusing, very much as was the case with William Golding's novel Darkness Visible. Once again I have to use the word cryptic, but in this case the main character is balancing his sceptic, rational (and often angry) views with his growing belief in some force greater than reason. In other words, something like God. No, I'm not making this up. Despite his atheist father, in his later years Golding saw himself as Christian, though he did not subscribe to any particular denomination even though for years he taught in an Anglican boys' schools. Note in this novel the references to Padre Pio and the churches in Italy.

Second, The Paper Men was written after Golding had won his Nobel Prize, and he was getting mighty sick of having academics and others knocking on his door or asking if they could have an interview or maybe even asking if they could write his life story. At the same time, he took a shine to a young American woman who wanted to write his biography. He was in his seventies. They did not have an affair, but his wife politely asked her to go away. She went. [This I know from a B.B.C. documentary in which Golding's daughter discussed the situation.] Much of the thrust of The Paper Men is Golding's disgust at the way journalists, academics and others misunderstood what his novels were really about. By the way, in the novel Wilfred Barclay says he hates London. This was what Golding also thought. He much preferred the small towns and rural areas - and of course sailing.

 

Something Thoughful

  

                                IN MEMORY OF IAIN SHARP 

Scottish born, Iain Sharp came to New Zealand when he was seven. He was a poet, a scholar, a very good speaker and great company. Never one to ever get into a fight, he always spoke softly even when he discussed issues that were regarded as dynamite by some people. He was very generous and very thoughtful. After complications, he died at the age of 72 in January of this year. I was honoured to be asked to be one of the people who were to speak at the memorial gathering in Nelson, where Iain and his wife Joy had been living for seven years. What follows is what I said.

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I’m not very good at ad-libbing, so I apologise for reading what I am going to say about Iain.

In the early 1970’s we were both studying in the same English Department at the University of Auckland, but I think we both barely noticed each other. It was only some years later that I got to know him well.

Often I would meet him in Ellerslie in Auckland near the Harp of Erin where he lived with his mother Catherine.  His mother was a very strong, forthright character, who wouldn’t take any nonsense in the best Scottish way. My wife Gabrielle thought she was great, but she tended to call me “Knockolass”  - so “Knockolass” I was. 

It was very good all those years as I got to know Iain when he was a librarian dealing especially with manuscripts in the Auckland Central Library. He was very erudite, especially about literature, and had an excellent grasp of New Zealand history, both Maori and Pakeha.   I knew he was a hard working person, but when he had time off, I would invite him to have lunch with me in a café and have a nice long chat about this and that … and he then would have to run back to work. Naturally the chat was often about books and how good or bad they were, only occasionally disagreeing. I never did persuade him the Joseph Conrad was the greatest novelist of the 20^th century because he was able to direct me to other novelists that he had read and I hadn’t.     Back then I was a film-reviewer and had to go to the movies all the time, good or bad though they were. When I took him he could be quite critical. I remember he particularly hated the film The Talented Mr. Ripley, noting the film was both pretentious and had a bad actor in the leading role. We was right.

He was for a long time in charge of the Sunday Star Times literature section, and he was very generous in sending books to me for review. In fact he sent so many to me that sometimes I used a pseudonym.  He was happy to go along with that. Iain was very scrupulous about reviewing. He wrote a very detailed article in a magazine about how cowardly most New Zealand book-reviewers are when it comes to New Zealand books, because most are afraid that they might bump into New Zealand authors whom they had reviewed. Again, I agreed.

When Iain and his wife Joy got together, they were a perfect couple. Gabrielle and I sometimes visited them and sometimes they visited us. They were very interested in our larger-than-normal family.  When they moved to Nelson we twice stayed with them. They were, as you might expect, very courteous hosts.   Iain still had his gentle Scottish lilt way of speaking and he was very good at never losing his cool.  He had a great sense of humor, he never raised his voice and, even if the word is now out-of-date, it’s fair to call him a gentleman in the true sense of the word.